cutting love
by blisterkissed
Summary: Body of blades. How victors heal. Bones of edges. How victors forget. Sharp, together, one. What victors do to feel whole again. Cutting words, wounded touches. Love between the girl with the axe and the girl with the knives. "Take me to church. I'll tell you my sins, and you can sharpen your knife. I should have worshiped her sooner."


They are blessed blades, they are divine knives.

Sacrosanct in satanic deeds.

Gray-light rituals of kissing palms, in worship of gentle sins and the sweet death of grinning innocence.

Toothy ignorance.

Everybody's disapproval.

A brisk wind rolls itself beneath the door, raising goosebumps. Drawn curtains hide the smashed mugs, upturned furniture and broken glass littering the floor. Remnants of vehement knuckles and wounded knees, blurry scenes of passion and contempt: one for their holy corpses and one for their all-knowing Father above. Knives glisten in the moonlight, thrown about around their bodies, the remembrance of Heaven's unshed tears of absolution. Fiery limbs in the heat of the moment, pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, no longer any space for the Holy Ghost.

Lovers.

Bedroom.

Place of worship.

Sharpen their knives.

Only with her is she human.

Madness boils in their veins, singeing arteries with the memory of murder, crisp ash following their pulse with sad songs and rebellion.

They are clip-point tongues with a false edge.

Sharpen the imposter, and it becomes a second edge to the blade, increasing its effectiveness in piercing.

Sharpen their tongues, and they are more adept at severing limbs, damaging nervous endings.

Thinner voices, clipped words, they leave trails of blood leading to whomever they spite. Like the Almighty, their mouths full of sharp knives should be feared.

Amen.

Amen.

The fog of humorous words at inappropriate times, speaking of forbidden subjects, float from their lips and mingle in the space between. A lethal gas, infecting those it comes in contact with. Blisters mark the hollows of their throats, the tender reaches of skin just behind their ears, the soft insides of their abuse-toughened elbows. They are contagion-spreading insurgents, vindictive smirks, drawing upon their features with a fatal hand too deadly to be Death, too angelic to be an angel.

Whispers of sins and morbid laughter, trails of saliva like venom on skin.

They are poison, they are plague, purer than sold in an apothecary.

Fresh. Renewed with every burst of sobriety, every lasting length of abstinence.

Forgive me-

Forgive me-

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

They are needle-point fingers, highly tapered. Both edges sharpened for fighting, yet delicate, breakable if abused.

Oversaturated with abuse, there is nothing else to break.

The narrow tip allows easy penetration, but no one had to tell them that. They know just fine, flashes of the inner workings of the human body, red and black and smoke and fire. Hot, sticky, crimson. Other people's blood smeared on their arms, their foreheads, their minds, their memories.

Cannons, cannons.

Church bells, church bells.

Are they the same sound now?

Words adopt different meanings when they are together, perfervid and perfect in their sanctuary of destruction. Needle-point fingers of knives for easy penetration, they remember, they scream, they fall to dust.

Ashes of veins, dust of bones, each others flavors hot on the hands, thick in the mouth, ready to be absolved. Their own holy water, warm from between their thighs, discouraging the demons inside.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Sharp, sharp unity.

They wield knives between the knuckles of their hands in the form of slender bone and and nails. Macabre giggles, open mouths sighing silent prayers, offering each other that deathless death. It hovers over their skin, rubbing off onto each other with each pass of the hand over the smooth surface of leg, of chest.

Used to stab, to jab.

Their cold fingertips of knives running up arms, knotting themselves into heavy hair. Raised white lines in their wake bless their skin, a signature.

Knives, knives.

Alive, alive.

Do they mean the same thing now?

They couldn't find forgiveness if they went to a church, peace be with them.

Low scoffs catch in throats, humming, thick vibrations.

They are each others peace, hand in hand, shaking, and this is their service. This is their worship. They are their own faith, each others faith, their bodies are their shrines that they kneel in front of and kiss.

Peace be with you, and also-

Forgive me-

Amen, amen.

And also-

Forgive me Father-

And also with you.

-for I have sinned, amen, amen.

What else is there in this dark world?

What else, what else?

Sheepsfoot waist made to be help by the fingers. Straight-edge muscles flexing as they move, hardening against hungry hands. Deep, smooth curves, the highest available control. The shape of rolling hips. Prevents accidental harm during sudden movements.

No other resort.

The only salvation.

Bleakness closing in with every rise of the chest, bare bones, cold canvases.

Caresses, kisses, the only lasting taste of the Promise Land that they never found.

The closest they can ever get to purity anymore.

Judgement Day has come and they were not admitted into Heaven.

Elbows, calves, curling toes, nails digging into arched backs.

Teeth.

Spines of blades. Bones curved and trailing.

Insides knotting at sighs of lies, making holy crosses behind their backs, heat in ears.

Sacrificing secrets to the goddess of mumbling sins and low moans of the past, fluttering touches like the voice of the Holy Spirit, died, risen, and come again.

The church is no place of refuge, but their bodies can be their faith and they can worship with each other in their silent isolation, their mad cathedral of sharpened knives, hatred, infatuation, frenzied spirit.

Their idolization can inflict severe damage.

Amen.

Their lust can lacerate.

Amen.

Nothing else, nothing else.


End file.
